


You Say Muffliato, I Say Muffilato

by sirius



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 16:50:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirius/pseuds/sirius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pansy and Draco work through some linguistic differences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Say Muffliato, I Say Muffilato

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written in 2006. It includes explicit sexual content, including pegging.
> 
> 'Muffliato' is a spell which "fills the ears of target persons near the caster with an unidentifiable buzzing, so that the caster can hold lengthy conversations without being overheard" (from the HP Lexicon).

The first problem they have is that Draco's Muffliato charm doesn't work. Pansy should have figured as much; he's a _boy_ , what do they care?, but actually their first problem is more that Millicent Bulstrode has the most enormous ears. She compliments them with a penchant for sticking her also-enormous nose into places it's not wanted and that, really, is their first problem. 

Their second problem is that along with Millicent's enormous ears and nose (she's called The Mighty Bulstrode for something, Pansy always says), she has the largest mouth at Hogwarts. One of the things Pansy likes about Slytherins is that they can keep secrets, unless they're about Gryffindors. But Gryffindors don't count, so Slytherins are generally pretty trustworthy. Except Millicent, who is a sneakier sort of Slytherin, the type Pansy calls tasteless. Normally the two keep out of each other's way; they're both adults and besides, Pansy's witticisms are best kept for Granger and the like. Pansy even kept her temper when Millicent decided to go to the fourth year ball with Draco, despite the fact that _obviously_ she looked like a bull in that pale blue silk. She was confident that Draco would see it the same way. Only he said something about it not flattering her shoulders; Slytherin boys being pussies when it came to Millicent. Draco had come to Pansy's room that night and lain down on the bed, on her hair, and muttered something about Millicent taking his head off. Pansy had pointed out that he had Crabbe and Goyle, the combined weight of which were sure to equal anything Millicent could do to him. “I won't be able to play Quidditch if I haven't a bloody head!” Draco had stuttered, melodramatically. 

“She might want you to fuck her,” Pansy reasoned. “Is Quidditch worth that much?”

“Yes!” Draco had said, instantaneous as a stupid, sport-obsessed _boy_. 

Of course, when Draco had seen Pansy in _her_ dress, he'd swiftly changed his mind, which was pleasing. The ball was all in all a pretty sort of affair; awash with Hogwarts' dreadful Gryffindor sentimentality but plenty dramatic too. Pansy had been coolly amused to see Granger tossing aside that smouldering Bulgarian for a little piece of demented Ron Weasley – karmic revenge for having no taste. And Draco, all beautifully trussed up in his white silk and collar, she'd liked that. All tight around the throat; so upright and haughty and downright sensual. They'd fucked afterwards or, no, not fucking – but there weren't any other words for what they'd done. It had been like Draco had been leaning over her and slipped, but Pansy had too much self-respect to judge it that way. Only it really had felt accidental. They'd come back to her room and been unsure of each other and when Pansy had lain down to sleep, Draco had, too. He had only the shirt on. She'd touched just under his chin, feeling the scrabble of his fingers at the buttons. Their eyes had met. He'd slipped the shirt off his shoulders and leant over her, and with a little bit of awkward fumbling that had been that. It was clumsy and jarring and _quick_ , and he made a sound like a huff of breath when he came. Like wanking. Except that he'd tweaked her nipples a bit. Not a great performance, all in all.

In any case, they hadn't been loud enough, then, for Millicent's great earlobes to pick up on. Draco hadn't even needed to cast a charm. That came later. By this point, they'd gone through year five having the same sort of not-quite-accidental sex and Pansy wasn't entirely sure what to make of it. He'd learnt not to come in nineteen seconds but she still reckoned he was either selfish or clueless. And wherever else Draco was selfish, he had never been with her. She had the impression that had he known how to touch her, he would have touched her, so the next time they had sex she grabbed his hand and put it where she wanted it. A brief look of surprise on his face vanished as he gave a few experimental rubs with a blunt fingertip. “Good enough for your cock, good enough for your hand,” Pansy had thought, nuzzling her hips against him for encouragement. He was always a little too rough for her but over fifth year she learnt how to come with it and it pleased him, in the quiet way that things pleased Draco. Always vocal about his peeves and his dramas, Draco was peculiarly silent when things were going his way. As it was, Pansy figured out a little too late that they way Draco touched her was the way he touched himself. It was a shame, as it might have saved her the humiliation of Millicent's laughter stabbing her in the back across the grounds.

\---

It had been logical, Millicent thought, to conclude from what Malfoy had _said_ that what Malfoy was _doing_ was obvious. Only Blaise had looked at her the way he looked at everyone apart from Malfoy, which was with his trademark raised eyebrow and a slight expression of scorn. He was always that little more cautious with Millicent. Nonetheless, he had coughed in a way that undoubtedly meant I'm Not Sure I'm Interested In My Best Friend's Sex Life, Thanks and attempted to move the conversation elsewhere. Millicent knew this was bollocks – if it had been that Fleur Whatshername, Blaise would have been simply fascinated. As it was, he was clearly utterly homophobic and Pansy hadn't been nearby and when Millicent had been contemplating gossiping with Pansy it just showed how stupid homophobia was.

“There are technical names for people who listen to other people's sex acts, you know.” He had replied, his tone light with fear or mockery, Millicent couldn't tell which. “They're long. And not good.”

“He was really loud,” Millicent had protested. “And, y'know, all like, 'fuck me, fuck me'. Clearly he wanted _someone_ to hear him.”

“Sounds like Malfoy,” Blaise had idly commented, a little more on safer ground. He had shared a dorm with Draco all of first and second year.

“Or perhaps he was just enjoying himself.”

“ _God_. Millicent, I have Potions.”

“You're always late for Potions. Snape always lets us lot off, anyway.”

“I'm trying to be a more conscientious student.”

“Oh, fuck you, then.”

“Er.” It had slipped out before he could help it, so he'd gathered his books together as quickly as he could and legged it. Huffily, Millicent had flopped down on the sofa and began tapping her nails against her knee. She hadn't supposed she'd have better luck with Theodore. Boys, she'd decided, were a disgrace to the name of Slytherin. She'd gone to find Pansy, thinking it for the best that she knew about Draco doing sodomy in her room. Probably for the best, Millicent had thought with just a touch of glee, that she should be the one to let her know.

\---

She had found Pansy with that Daphne Greengrass, who Millicent distrusts on principle because she's pretty. Pansy is pretty too, where Millicent is built like an carthorse, Blaise says, and the willowy wisps in Slytherin irritate her. Pansy had been tucking her hair behind her ear and cocking her knee so that her thigh was exposed. Millicent would have said that she was flirting with Daphne were Pansy not a raging heterosexual slut, and, well. It had worked, hadn't it, because all the boys within ten feet were looking at her; just a _knee_ for heaven's sakes. As Millicent approached Daphne had made her leave, which suited both of them fine. She'd said something about practising Charms later and it was all so sickeningly girl-on-girl that Millicent had wanted to punch her hand into a nearby tree. Playing up the schoolgirls fantasy; just so Slytherin. Pansy had smirked to herself, probably learning Occlumency or something.

“Are you done with your foreplay or do you want to chase after her and wrap your legs around her head?” It hadn't been a fist into a tree, but it was enough.

“Jealous, Millicent? I didn't think I was your type. I read a fascinating article about the way people choose their partners on physical similarity. Perhaps you should try talking to Goyle?”

Perhaps more than a tree, Millicent had thought. Perhaps the whole fucking Whomping Willow. 

“Oh, ha. Very good. A bit old, don't you think?”

“You prefer them younger?”

_Whomp, whomp._

“Hah. It's just laugh-a-minute with you. Anyway, no, I came to do you a favour, _actually_ , but I'm rapidly changing my mind.” 

Pansy had studied her, green eyes narrowing. Her chin had pointed upward which was her way of demonstrating genuine confusion. One of the perils of being in Slytherin is being surrounded by the cunning and craftiness all day long. Millicent had smirked, enjoying the feeling that had come before Pansy opened that little slick mouth of hers. It made an 'o' shape, which meant that the boys were still there. 

“You've come to tell me something for my own good. Something so utterly terrible that only you could possibly put your own feelings aside to do it? My, my, you are quite the saint, Millicent.”

“You know me. Got my loyalties in the right place, as always.”

“Mmm. Well, what is it? I'll try not to cry.”

She hadn't cried. But it had wiped so much of the smirk off her face that it was like dowsing her in white paint and the satisfaction was awe-inspiring. Toward the end Millicent had lost control a bit and enjoyed every word of it, replicating the gasping noises she'd heard and that little pant of “oh, fuck, har...der.” It had worked out even better than she'd hoped because from the look on Pansy's face, Draco had been dating her. She had had a look of utter devastation when Millicent had mentioned how Draco gulped “Harry”, and oh, the feeling that washed through her stomach at that look was as good as an orgasm. Tucking her hair behind her ear again, Pansy had swooshed off with a brief crackle of “thank you for letting me know,” and Millicent had been left dizzy with it, leaning against the tree with her hand. She had laughed until Pansy was well out of sight. Pansy had walked with her hair bobbing against the back of her neck, one hand over her mouth. Millicent had kept laughing until she'd seen her walking back into the grounds, until the dizzy feeling had gone away.

\---

Their third problem, then, isn't that the two of them have been caught fucking. The third problem is that the three of them have been caught fucking and that, up until this point, Pansy hadn't realised that there was anyone else in the room. She had realised it wasn't a straightforward request given their biological equipment, but he had asked her to fuck him and that was enough. Only now she realised that he'd asked _Harry_ to fuck him and it was _Harry_ that had made him come, and she couldn't verbalize any of it so she just slapped his face when she saw him in the common room. It didn't make her feel better, so she went to her room and tried to remember the spell for locking doors. Then she began trying to entangle the billionth mess that being naked with Draco Malfoy had gotten her into. In the beginning things had been simple enough. There'd been her dress and the way it dipped into her cleavage and what fifteen year old boy wouldn't be interested in that? The fucking had been okay at first; unimaginative and somewhat casual, but definitely heterosexual. It was fifth year when everything went wrong. That was hardly surprising, but Pansy didn't see why Lucius being in Azkaban should have made Draco turn into a, well, pansy.

He hadn't written to her that entire summer. When sixth year began, Pansy thought he'd lost the plot a bit. She thought they'd made an Unbreakable Vow of hatred to one another on the staircase leading to the Great Hall, back in first year, but Draco didn't seem to care about Harry. He had the kind of self-importance that Pansy had always recognised as bravado but, with his head in her lap on the train, she supposed that Lucius' absence might have brought on Draco's independence at last. He seemed confident, of himself and of the future, and if this gave him a sharp sort of edge she could only be pleased for it. While Granger and that awful Weasley girl fussed on and on about Hard Times, like Hogwarts was part of some Dickensian novel for crying out loud, Pansy spent most of her lessons thinking about a more domineering sort of Draco. A Draco that might finally get her off her way, rather than his. As the weeks went on, she became more sure of it; Draco was certainly different, with a swagger to him that spoke of plotting and planning. He wouldn't tell her what he was plotting and planning, only that it was important, and she liked the new responsibility he seemed to be taking in his life. The moment – that key slice of time that had changed everything, that had come in the fifth week of term. That was the moment when Pansy stopped being pleased with the new Draco. That was the moment, at least, where she realised that both of them were in over their heads, in every way possible.

Draco had come to her room for the first time and she had stood in the dim light, naked. He'd watched her body cut shadows across the room and the black light under the tilt of her breasts. Compelled, he'd removed his shirt and given it to her. About to place it on the chair by the bed she'd slipped it on, collar curled around the slim frame of shoulders, his scent deep in the fabric and on her skin. It was too big, much too big; hanging to mid-thigh, cuffs about two inches from her hands. It was sensual, though. Like wearing him on her. She'd looked over her shoulder at him with her green eyes, trying to gauge his reaction. His eyes were hot and unfocussed; taking in her cropped hair, her skin and her cotton warmth. He was hard, she could see it in his trousers. Her eyes dropped and she took in the Mark, curling black and ugly on his forearm. The mood changed the way a sudden burst of lightning changes the sky. She felt suddenly sickened. With herself or with him, she wasn't sure. 

“You took the Mark,” she said, not moving.

“I thought you'd have seen it coming.”

“Can you feel Him?”

“No.”

“Not even around Potter?”

“No. I don't think so.”

“What's he like?”

“...Hatred. He's full of hatred.”

“Were you scared?”

He hesitates but his eyes answer the question. She lies down but they don't fuck, she's too uneasy. She swirls her fingers over the black coils as if trying to sense their power in her fingertips. He lets her and then he goes down on her. He's never done it before or since. His tongue is sharp like a snake's and she comes harder than before or since. It's a memory that becomes more precious to her in the weeks and months afterwards, as Draco slowly becomes more and more afraid of everything. The shadows on the walls, even, are too much and she knows he's in over his head. She knows that she is, too. It reaches the point eventually where she doesn't really care and she wonders if next summer, she'll take the Mark as well. She wonders just how much he's going to need her. She mentions it to Draco a few times but he never seems anything other than indifferent. He comes to her less and when he does, he does her emotional damage. He brings storms into her bed and she realises that she doesn't know him anymore. He fucks like a beast but she gets little pleasure out of it; he's too out of control for it to mean anything to her. She keeps letting him because he never stops asking for her permission. At least while he behaves like a gentleman there's still a bit of Pureblood nobility in them. One evening he doesn't ask and she realises with a sinking heart that whatever they have is over. Until he opens his mouth and asks for something else. And she considers it.

\---

“Muffilato,” Draco husks and she's too busy arranging herself that she misses his mispronunciation entirely. She doesn't allow him to turn around. It's not that she feels humiliated – in actuality, it looks rather good on her -, but she's testing his obedience. When she instructs and he turns, he sees her in black lace with the phallic shape curling from her body. His mouth drops open and his eyes are lidded and she knows, then, of the power she holds over him. It's the same power in the dress when they were fifteen but it's bigger, better, because he wants it more. Wants _her_ more for it, she thinks at first, her first mistake. But he says “Pansy” like he never wants to say another woman's name, so she feels she was misled. The note breaks on the 'a' and turns it into 'ahn'. It's the most beautiful thing she's ever heard. They arrange themselves on the bed and she curls her tongue around his earlobe, kissing her way down his neck. His body thrums with nerves and he jumps when the cock taps his inner thighs. She gets a kick out of that. She gets another out of the sound he makes when he's preparing himself on her command.

Her gaze is intent on his winding fingers, partly because she's learning and partly because there's something unspeakably indecent about what he's doing. His head is tilted back and his eyes are closed, and there's a downward movement that's making him gasp like he does just before he comes. When she takes his hand away and enters him with her own fingers, she locks her eyes on his face and wills that same reaction on. He tries to say her name without a breath in his lungs and she callously makes it ragged, flicking her fingertips downwards the way she watched him do. He makes a sound that's half a roar and his body thrashes. The power of it is terrifying. “Tell me when you're ready,” she says, and she's sure that he's taking advantage of her generosity. His hips jerk like he's having the wank of his life and Pansy thinks it's terribly unfair, that something so practical should feel so good. 

Somehow she's glad she can't feel him. Mostly it's because she can't come too fast that way like she might if she had a real cock, but there's a part of her that feels delightfully selfless. Nobody else will touch Draco this way again, she thinks. Nobody will be a part of him. He has fucked himself into her so many times that this feels like a score levelled, two souls now fully connected and true. Not sentimentally true, because Pansy leaves that to the Gryffindors, but true in a way that's going to mean horror, and bloodshed and bad decisions made good only because of their connection. She feels that in this moment, whatever Draco has to do at the Dark Lord's command, she can be there for him. With him, if...Voldemort will take her. She touches Draco's face with her hand and wills his eyes to open, to see this moment of intimacy for what it is. They blink open, little smears of a blue so pale it's almost transparent. He shakes with vulnerability beneath her and his eyes close again. She will look after him, she thinks. Everything will be alright.

“Oh, God, fuck me. Fuck me harder,” he grunts, and she's careful about it as she pushes her hips down with more force. His hands are around her back and one foot presses gently into the small of her spine, fixed on her rhythm. His eyes are still closed. He's as hard as nails and she wants to touch him but his hand is already there, thumbing the head of his cock. It's a lazy movement that reminds her of the way he used to touch her. It quickens as she does and so she runs with it and tests it, knowing that she could go on forever. It's all about him and the bend of his body beneath hers, undoing with the feel of her inside him. The harder she goes the faster he does and she can barely hear him over the pounding of blood in her ears. It's exhausting and exhilarating and there's this high moan sounding somewhere not very far off and she loves it, she just _loves_ it. The back of his hand is across his eyes and he's panting, his mouth all wet and slack and needy. She presses her breasts against his chest and kisses him on it, just once, hard. Affirmative. Everything will be alright. He breathes soft 'ohs' against her lips. 

She gives him five more thrusts as hard as he wants them, a little afraid, and he makes a sound like wrangled metal. Maybe it's the friction or the emotion or the heat between them but it's enough, for her, and she comes completely by surprise. It's painful, the way it always is with not enough foreplay, but it doesn't matter because she can still fuck and fuck and fuck – and Draco wants her so much. It's written all over his face, in the curve of his mouth as it opens and the noise almost deafens. She's just getting used to the silence of the white noise, tasting it in her mind, when she realised that his eyes are half-open, which they never have been before. Draco closes his eyes when he comes; squints them, usually. She realises that he has probably said her name and she's missed it but the peacefulness of his expression is enough. It's the only time it hasn't been careless and accidental and odd and the moment makes her briefly delirious. When she lies down beside him and wriggles her soaked skin against the sheets, she has no idea that the name Draco said wasn't hers. The moment belongs to the figure outside the door.

\---

The door knock is loud and Pansy realises that she's brought the memory back too vividly; she hasn't heard the sound. There's an irony in that, particularly as the door opens to Draco. She regards him with cold eyes and a frail bottom lip that he wishes, suddenly, he'd never kissed. He has nothing to say and he knows it, so he goes to sit on her bed. Blaise has explained his run-in with Millicent in the barest details possible and Draco is glad for his homophobic discretion. He asked no questions and neither does Pansy. It's probably for the best, as he has no answers.

“I must have pronounced the charm wrongly,” he says, but it isn't an apology. She doesn't look at him, merely replies in a voice stinging with indignation: 

“Yes; Pansy is so easily confused with Harry.”


End file.
